Then the thief, passing him rapidly, got into a Myrtle Avenue car, and this was the last he saw of him for that day.
Andy walked about the streets of Brooklyn for a while and returned by Fulton Ferry. Then he went back to his boarding place, arriving there between three and four o'clock.
As he went up to his room he noticed that the door of the large room opposite was open. A young man, of about thirty, was sitting in a rocking-chair, reading.
He was of medium height and sallow complexion. He wore his hair long, and had a high, narrow forehead.
"I suppose that is the man who has fits," thought Andy.
The young man had noticed Andy's entrance into his own room, and, rising from the rocking-chair, crossed the hall and knocked lightly at the door.
"Come in," said Andy.
"I suppose this is Mr. Grant," began the young man, bowing. "I am Mr. Warren, and live in the room opposite."
"Won't you come in and sit down?" asked Andy, with a glance at the only chair the room contained.
"Don't let me take your only chair. I'll sit on the bed, if you don't mind."